Ruthless Bratva King (New York Russian Mafia Kings #1)

44. Elena

44

ELENA

I lie curled against him, my cheek resting on the hard plane of his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

His arm is draped over me, his hand splayed possessively across my hip. The room is dark and quiet, save for our mingled breaths. I don’t want this moment to end, and the thought sneaks out into words before I can stop it.

“I wish this could last forever.”

He doesn’t reply right away. His fingers stroke absently over my skin, but his silence is heavy. Too heavy. I shift, propping myself up on one elbow to look at him.

“What’s wrong?” I ask softly.

He turns his head to meet my gaze, his ice-blue eyes clouded with an emotion I don’t see often: regret. “You deserve more,” he says finally, his voice low. “A proper marriage with a decent person. My hands are soaked in blood, Elena. You do not deserve a life with a monster.”

The unexpected vulnerability in his words pierces me. I reach up and cup his face, brushing my thumb along the hard line of his jaw. “We can have whatever life we want, Dmitri. It doesn’t have to be perfect.”

His lips curve into a faint, bittersweet smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He lifts his hand to cover mine, holding it against his cheek for a moment before turning his gaze back to the ceiling.

The silence stretches, but it’s not the comforting kind that usually fills the spaces between us. This one is heavy, laden with something unsaid.

“Tell me,” I urge gently. “Whatever it is, just tell me.”

He exhales deeply, his chest rising and falling beneath my hand. When he finally speaks, his voice is distant, as though he’s pulling the words from a place he doesn’t visit often.

“I was seven, living on the streets. Hungry. Cold. Always looking over my shoulder.” His fingers tighten slightly on my hip. “Then I met a nurse. Sofia. She found me one night, half-dead in an alley, and took me in. Fed me. Gave me a bed. She didn’t have much, but she shared everything she had. For the first time in my life, I felt safe.”

I reach for his hand, threading my fingers through his.

“She was killed,” he continues, his tone flat, but the pain beneath it is unmistakable. “A mugger. Right in the street. I wasn’t there to protect her. I was in the school she made me attend.”

My heart twists at the anguish in his voice. “Dmitri…”

“Years later, I found the bastard who did it,” he continues, cutting me off. “But what I didn’t know was that he worked for Don Lombardi.” He spits the name like poison. “An Italian mob boss who didn’t take kindly to one of his men being killed. They found me. Beat me. Burned me. I would’ve died if Peter hadn’t stepped in.”

I blink, trying to process the weight of his words. “Peter saved you?”

He nods. “He got me out of there. Took me in. But I wasn’t the same after that. I was angry. At the world. At myself. I hunted down every man I could find connected to Lombardi. Peter gave me all their names. I burned their homes to the ground. Their families were inside with them.”

His voice drops to a whisper. “Innocent people died because of me.”

I suck in a breath, my heart aching for him. The guilt, the rage, the endless cycle of violence—it’s all there, etched into his features, weighing on him like chains.

“That’s why I don’t get attached,” he says, his eyes finally meeting mine. “Those men loved. They had families. They died. They all died. I won’t let that happen to us.”

I reach for him, cradling his face in my hands. “You didn’t know, Dmitri. You were young. No one taught you any better. It wasn’t your fault.”

His expression crumbles, just for a moment, and he pulls me into his arms, holding me as if he’s afraid I’ll disappear. His lips press against my hair, and I feel the tremor in his breath.

For the first time, I see the boy who lost everything. A man who’s fought his whole life to survive. And I vow to myself that I’ll stand by him, no matter what.

For a moment, he doesn’t respond. He just sits there, rigid, as if he doesn’t know how to accept the comfort I’m offering. But then, slowly, his arms come around me, and he holds on.

The boy he was, the man he’s become—both are laid bare before me, and I realize with startling clarity that I’m not afraid. If anything, I’m angry.

Angry at his parents for abandoning him. Angry at the men who robbed him of so much. And beneath the anger, there’s something else: a fire I didn’t know I had. A fierce, protective loyalty that pulses through my veins.

I shift back slightly, cupping his face in my hands. His eyes are guarded, shadowed by everything he’s been through, but I don’t look away. I meet his gaze head-on, letting him see the resolve burning inside me.

“I don’t care about your past,” I say, my voice steady. “I care about the future. What matters is the way you learn from the things you’ve done. You have a heart in there, even if you pretend you don’t. You protected me and Veronica. You didn’t have to but you did.”

For a moment, he looks at me like I’ve just done the impossible—like I’ve touched a part of him no one else ever has.

Then he pulls me into a kiss, his lips pressing against mine with a mix of passion and desperation. His arms tighten around me, holding me as if he’s terrified of letting go. I kiss him back just as fiercely, pouring everything I’m feeling into the connection between us.

When we finally pull apart, we’re both breathless, our foreheads resting together. He closes his eyes, his hands framing my face as he murmurs,

“You’re breaking through walls I was sure would never fall.”

I smile softly, brushing my thumb over his cheek. “You can’t change the past,” I say. “But you can change your future. As long as you have enough belief in yourself, right?”